


In Your Dreams

by MissCrazyWriter321



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Confusion, Episode Fix-it: s01e15 Destiny, F/M, Fluff, Time Travel Shenanigans, eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 13:01:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20340520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissCrazyWriter321/pseuds/MissCrazyWriter321
Summary: Maybe he’s truly reached that point. He’s lonely, and the idea of being someone’s hero is tempting. He knows dreams aren’t real, after all. (Some days, he almost convinces himself.)But every night when he closes his eyes, he dreams. And sometimes, (often,) he doesn’t want to wake up.





	In Your Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it's another Destiny fix-it fic. Can there ever be too many? Anyway, this was written after 1x15, before 1x16. I was going through old files, dug it up, and decided to share it. Enjoy!!!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing but my ideas.

The dreams start right after Mick leaves. He says he’s doing a new job, and that they probably won’t see each other for a long time. (The other man seems older, and pain seems far too vivid in his eyes, but Snart wonders if he imagines it. Mick doesn’t do pain. But “ _ Take care of yourself”  _ rings in his ears for months after.) 

The dreams happen nearly nightly: Flashes of blonde, bright eyes full of challenge, playing cards, push-and-pull and  _ “Wanna dance, Leonard?”  _ and he can’t understand it.

He’s known blondes before, has even liked a few, but none of them made him feel like these dreams do.

Alive. 

Entranced.

_ Heroic.  _ (Those are the ones he hates- _ loves- _ the most: When she looks at him with awe, and he just knows that she’s seeing him as a hero. They make him feel like maybe, just maybe, he can be one. Those hurt the most, because  _ he knows better.  _ He’s no hero, and he never will be.)

He doesn’t tell anyone, of course. He keeps pulling jobs and watching over Lisa, as if nothing has changed. 

He tries to convince himself that none of this means anything. 

Maybe he saw her in a store somewhere, before all of this. (He’s read that your brain never forgets a face, after all.) As for how they make him feel… Maybe he’s truly reached that point. He’s lonely, and the idea of being someone’s hero is tempting. He knows dreams aren’t real, after all. (Some days, he almost convinces himself.)

But every night when he closes his eyes, he dreams. And sometimes, ( _ often,)  _ he doesn’t want to wake up.

-

He sees her.

He’s sitting in a café, sipping his cocoa, casing the bank across the street, when he notices her. 

She’s watching him, a strangely melancholy look in her eyes, fingers clutching a mug in front of her tightly. 

As soon as he looks at her, she freezes, and when he doesn’t look away, confusion washes over her face. Followed by understanding, and something like disappointment. (She’s beating herself up inside, and he wants to know how he knows.) 

She pastes on a grin, tosses him a wink, and stands to leave. 

He shoots one last longing look at the bank, and the big haul he would have made, before shaking his head.

The woman from his dreams is real, and she knows him. He’d like to know why.

It isn’t even thirty seconds, she shouldn’t be able to go far, but when he steps outside, she’s nowhere to be seen. 

He spends half an hour searching the streets nearby, before surrendering.

(Her disappointed eyes haunt him throughout the day.)

(He doesn’t rob the bank.)

-

He  _ keeps  _ seeing her, and the dreams grow more vivid. 

She’s leaving the grocery store as he arrives, and he dreams of the cold. So much cold he can hardly stand it, and words that don’t even make sense.

“ _ What’s it like? Dying? I imagine you’ve got a unique perspective.” _

He feels far worse at the thought of her dying than the thought of him.

She’s at the end of the street when he turns, and he dreams of Russia. Those dreams don’t make much sense, either, and they’re garbled, as if he has a bad connection, but she’s holding a gun, and it’s the most important thing to him that she doesn’t pull the trigger.

She doesn’t.

He sees her at the aquarium, of all places, (Lisa wanted to go, and he’s quite forgotten how to tell her “no,”) and dreams of Mick shooting her. Dreams of shooting Mick. Dreams of choosing a side, and never hesitating to choose a team he can’t even remember, but really, he’s choosing her. 

That dream scares him, and the next time he sees her, once again at the café, she doesn’t escape so easily. 

There’s no hesitation in his movements as he follows her outside, and when she turns down an alley, he catches her.

“Who are you?” He hisses, grabbing her arm. Her eyes flash dangerously, and he remembers one of his dreams: Watching her fight half a bar full of angry men before he even had a chance to step in. He’s suddenly acutely aware of how easily she could break him, but she doesn’t, just stares at him coldly. 

“Let  _ go  _ of me.” Her voice is steady, but her breathing isn’t, and he quickly lets go. Because he values his life, he reasons. That’s all. (He’d rather never have answers than ever have her look at him like that again.)

“Who are you?” He repeats, and he manages to keep his voice even. 

“You followed me,” she responds, and he nearly rolls his eyes.

“You’ve been following me for months, turnabout is fair play. Now, I’ll ask you one more time: Who. Are. You?” 

For a moment, he thinks she’ll keep arguing, but something breaks in her, and she sighs.

“I’m just someone who wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“What do you care?” He shoots back, and the disbelief in his heart manifests as anger, because he can’t remember the last time someone was so worried about him, besides Lisa. 

She doesn’t waver. 

“Because I do. But don’t worry, I won’t bother you anymore.” 

She turns to go, and he has so many questions, he doesn’t know where to start. But he doesn’t get a chance. She runs, and try as he might, he can’t catch her.

-

He keeps his eyes open, but she keeps her word. No matter where he looks, she’s nowhere to be found.

Meanwhile, his dreams only grow stronger. 

_ A man holds a knife to her throat, and he’s ready to do anything to get her back. _

_ He’s leaving, _ (Leaving where? He can never figure out where they’re supposed to be, or what’s supposed to be happening, only that it’s the two of them together, and a crew he can’t recall.)  _ and she doesn’t come with him. Every step is a war, but he knows he has to leave, before he regrets it.  _

_ The opportunity slips away, and he tries to muster more anger than he feels.  _

_ They’re playing cards, they’re hiding together, and he knows how this is going to end.  _

_ He doesn’t quite know how, but he knows.  _

_ He pulls a gun on her, and he’s terrified. She steps back instinctively, before her eyes harden, and she’s livid.  _

_ Why is he the one who’s scared?  _

_ “I remember Russia. You’re the one who stopped me from killing Stein.”  _

_ Please, stop fighting.  _ (But is he talking to her, or himself?)

_ “That’s because you seem to have a problem being a killer. I, however, don’t.”  _

_ Yes, he does. He can’t kill her. She steps toward him, and he jerks back instinctively.  _

_ “Prove it. Shoot me.”  _

_ She won’t back down, not for anything, and he knows he isn’t getting out of this alive. Not if he doesn’t kill her.  _

_ His life or hers. _

_ That’s always been an easy choice: His life over everyone but Lisa’s.  _

_ (Even Mick, and he regrets that, now.)  _

_ But he can’t seem to remember how to pull the trigger.  _

_ She’s waiting.  _

_ He’s waiting. _

_ It’s time to choose.  _

_ It’s time to- _

He wakes with a start, heart pounding. He can’t breathe. What happened next? She’s still alive, he’s seen her, and none of this makes sense.

He goes back to sleep, but he dreams an old dream, of a card game in a hallway.

The days pass, and he knows he needs to get a handle on this, because he isn’t even thinking clearly anymore. 

A job goes south, and he nearly gets caught. Shortly after, he disbands his crew.  _ Taking a break,  _ he tells them. 

_ Losing my mind,  _ he thinks.

-

He dreams of her kissing him. It isn’t surprising, not really. It was obvious where these dreams were heading. He knows he should feel happy, but something’s wrong. 

They’re both too grim, and when she walks away, he feels strangely lonely. As if everyone he loves is a million miles away. 

The thing is, he knows those people are safe. (Knows  _ she’s  _ safe, and it’s funny, because in all of the dreams before, he shied away from the word “love,” his father’s definition still fresh in his mind, but in this one, he isn’t afraid. He loves her, and he knows it.) 

He’s dying, he realizes suddenly. He can’t explain how he knows. There’s no obvious proof, but he knows he’s about to die. 

Dying to save someone else. 

How heroic. 

How noble.

(How could that ever be him?) 

-

If these dreams were real, he’d be dead. He clings to this thought, uses it to pull himself together. He’s alive, so whatever these dreams are, they aren’t real. They never happened. 

No matter what he’d like to believe, there’s no gorgeous blonde missing her hero. 

He probably just confused the poor girl he confronted that day. 

(“What do you care?” “Because I do.” He pushes the thoughts away.  _ I’m not dead; those dreams aren’t real.) _

He starts to do jobs again, starting with working crowds and picking pockets, trying to get back in the habit. 

He robs a store, a museum, and a mall. (He can’t even look at a bank.)

The dreams don’t stop, but they’re all reruns now, and he can almost focus clearly. 

Then, one day, he gets an offer. 

A quarter of a million dollars to kill someone. He’s never been much of an assassin, prefers not to kill people unless he has to, (and he still has that deal with the Scarlet Speedster,) but that’s a lot of money, and he’s essentially broke. (Two months without pulling a single job will do that to you. These new ones have barely helped him pay the bills.)

He accepts. 

It’s supposed to be a simple task. (Which really should have been a warning sign for him,) 

He stands in the shadows, in front of a large house. Whoever comes up to the door, he shoots.

It’s her.

Of course it is.

He steps out instinctively, gun trained on her. She whirls to face him, hand already reaching for some weapon, when her eyes settle on him. She relaxes slightly, but watched him warily.

“Snart? What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’re trying to rob Savage.”

Savage? And people said  _ his  _ name was bad. He considers playing along, because every fiber of his being rebels at the idea of shooting her, but he’s in too deep.

“Actually, I’m more like… Hired help.”

Confusion flickers through her eyes, followed by understanding. She glances at his cold gun, and sighs.

“You’re supposed to kill me?” 

He hates the pain on her face, (hates that he hates it, also,) but what fascinates him is the anger. Not aimed at him, but aimed at this ‘Savage’. 

“That’s the plan,” he admits, and he knows he should stop talking, but this feels too much like one of his dreams, the one he never gets to see the end of. 

Conflict wars in her eyes, before she sighs.

“I’m not going to fight you.”

_ If the dreams were real, I’d be dead,  _ he reminds himself, finger twitching slightly. But he can’t bring himself to pull the trigger. He has to know.

“That’s because you seem to have a problem with being a killer. I, however, don’t.”

At first, she only meets his gaze steadily. He doesn’t move. 

(He can hardly remember how to breathe. He can only remember her voice, cold and hard. “Prove it. Shoot me.”)

Then, her expression flickers with disbelief, and something like hope. 

“Prove it,” she manages, and it’s so different to hear the pleading edge on her tone, pleading with him to remember something he can’t place. “Shoot me.”

It’s so much more than proof. 

The words click, and it’s like turning a key. Suddenly, he remembers everything. 

_ An impossible offer. _

_ “Hero ain’t on my resume.” _

_ “If we have the power to change the world….” _

_ “Sara, don’t do it.” _

_ “I don’t like you, but…At least I’m not dying alone.” _

_ Vandal Savage. _

_ 1970s. _

_ The Wild West. (Ray was no John Wayne, but he earned some respect from Leonard that day.) _

_ A ringing phone. _

_ “If you want to steal a kiss…” _

He remembers dying.

Not just the moments leading up to it, but the very second he died. He remembers it all.

_ “Prove it. Shoot me.” _

She’s still waiting for an answer. And Savage is right behind her.

“With pleasure.” He drawls, not allowing himself a moment to look at her face, before firing.

Savage glares at him through the ice, but he can’t move. The cold gun may not be able to kill him, but it can hold him in place.

With Savage secure, Leonard turns back to a wide-eyed Sara. 

“Oops?” He grins, and she lets out a startled laughing, before frowning.

“How much do you-“

“Waverider, time-travel, Rip Hunter, Gideon, dying, which I have questions about…Everything. And I remember a certain kiss. Speaking of, how long before I can get a repeat performance? Because the last one was a bit of a let-down.”

She stares at him incredulously for a moment, before surging forward, kissing him. There’s an air of desperation, like she’s worried this is all going to vanish at any moment, and he tugs her closer, returning the kiss firmly. 

Before, he’d been limited in his ability to participate. Now, both hands are free, and he takes advantage of the fact, sliding his fingers through her hair, pressing her closer to him, savoring every moment. 

“Sara…” He sighs, and she pulls away, eyeing him in confusion. 

“How do you remember all of that?”

“What I’d like to know is, how did I forget?”

She swallows hard, and shakes her head. 

“You didn’t. It just… Never happened.”

His relief is starting to fade. He died. He remembers it now, oh-so-vividly. It hurt. And now he’s here. Alive. 

“The Occulus-“

“Gone.” She answers flatly, and a moment passes, before she continues.

“We defeated Savage, once and for all. The man behind me… He’s been defeated, he just doesn’t know it yet. The Time Masters… Not all of them were corrupt. The good ones took over, and as a thank you for saving the world… We got to change something. I don’t know how to explain it, but they were able to  _ pull  _ you from the timeline, right from the beginning. You were never part of the Waiverider crew.”

A strange sort of shame washes over him, and he frowns. 

“So, everything I did-“ 

He should have known better. How could someone like him be important to a mission like that? To someone like her?

“You still did. Kind of. Like I said, it’s hard to explain. But for the same reason we can still remember you, those things were still done. They made it where your death was like a reset button. It made a version of you who never came with us. Who never died.”

His head is starting to hurt, and that’s something else he’s forgotten: How confusing time travel is. But suddenly, it doesn’t matter. He’s alive, he’s with her, and they’re okay. 

He steps forward, tugging her close, and they’re kissing again. 

“You shouldn’t-“ He cuts off her protests with another kiss. “Be able-“ Another. She huffs slightly. “To remember-“ He pulls back, and looks down at her sternly. 

“The fact that you’re still capable of speech at this point is highly damaging to my ego. I’d appreciate you at least pretending to be breathless.”

She rolls her eyes, but a smile tugs at her lips, and she sighs dramatically.

“Who knew Leonard Snart was such a romantic?”

He glares at her, but he can feel the smile slipping onto his face without permission.

“Don’t worry,” she adds. “It’s be our little secret.”

She kisses him again, and neither of them talk for awhile.

-

“There’s  _ no physical way for you to remember _ -“

“What can I say? I don’t like playing by the rules, Rip. Now, where are we headed?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!!


End file.
